The Poisoned Chalice

Chapter 4

The next morning Benjamin shook me awake. I got up, thick-headed, with a cloying mouth. But a cold wash and a cup of malmsey soon put me right. After we had broken fast in the small buttery which adjoined the kitchen, Benjamin dragged me outside to the gardens.

'Where are we off to, master?'

'To see Crispin Hollis and Francis Twynham.'

'Who the hell are they?'

'They are the two messengers, the ones who carry documents to Paris.'

We found them in the stables, tending to the horses; country lads whose constant talk was of saddles, bridles, reins and spurs; what was good horseflesh and what wasn't; what horses should be fed and when they could drink. Benjamin, with his usual charm and tact, drew them into conversation, listening to their voluble descriptions of the horses they had ridden.

'So,' he interrupted, seizing the right moment, 'you carry messages from Westminster to the English embassy in Paris?'

Hollis, a fresh-faced yokel, grinned as he cleaned the gaps between his teeth with a piece of sharp straw.

'From Westminster,' he replied, 'Greenwich, Sheen… wherever the court is.' 'And what route do you take?'

‘Dover to Calais, across Normandy to the Porte St Denis, and either to the Rue des Medeans or across Paris through the Porte D'Orleans to the Chateau de Maubisson.'

'And you stop where?'

'At certain taverns.'

'Nowhere else?'

'Sometimes at the Convent of St Felice.' 'Why there?'

The fellow shrugged. 'You have met Sir Robert Clinton?' 'We have.'

'And his beautiful wife, Lady Francesca?' 'Of course.'

'Well,' Twynham interrupted with a grin, 'Lady Francesca was schooled there by the nuns. It's a sumptuous place. Now and again the Lady Francesca asks us to take the good nuns gifts of embroidery.'

'And that is all?'

'Sometimes a small purse of silver from the coffers of her husband.'

Benjamin nodded and stared where an ostler was trying to calm an excited horse.

'And your two companions, the ones in France? Do they stop there?'

'Again, sometimes. It's an ideal place.'

'But you don't stop there every time?'

'No,' Hollis replied. 'I would say one in every three times.' He smirked. 'We do not wish to lose a good, soft bed because of our greed.'

'And the pouch you carry?' I asked. 'With the letters and documents?'

Twynham's face became grave with self-importance. 'When we sleep, one of us has it chained to our wrist. No one can touch that bag.'

'But two of your companions were killed?' Benjamin added softly.

Hollis turned and spat a stream of yellow phlegm. 'Yes, I know, but the French protect and afford us every comfort. Those messengers were killed by outlaws. It sometimes happens.' Benjamin nodded and quietly turned the conversation back to horseflesh. As we walked away I looked at him sideways. He had that distant look which showed he was absorbed in solving some problem.

'Master,' I touched him on the shoulder, 'it is strange that these messengers stop at the same convent where the Lady Francesca was educated. Do you think she could be the spy?'

Benjamin ruffled his long, black hair with his hands.

'I doubt it,' he said quietly. 'First Lady Francesca may be beautiful, she may have a sharp wit, but not the power to collect and convey secret information to some spy-master in Paris. Secondly, she would not be privy to any information contained in those letters. Oh, her husband may chatter but I doubt if he gives her a blow by blow account of English activities in France. Thirdly, you have heard the messengers. They only stop at St Felice one out of every three times and, when they do, the bag is chained to their wrists.' He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. 'And even if the good nuns did seduce them, they would have to break the seal on the pouch as well as my lord cardinal's special seal on each letter, decode the cipher and re-seal them again.' He shook his head. 'No, no, that's impossible.'

Later in the day we received instructions that Sir Robert and his party would be leaving the following morning. The lord cardinal wished us to attend one more of his interminable banquets – and this is where I made a bad situation worse. The banquet began with the usual mumbo-jumbo, except the cardinal dined alone at the high table under a rich cloth of state, his fat body almost hidden by platters of heaped delicacies, whilst all around him stood serving men to refill his goblet, replenish napkins or offer a fresh knife. There was no sign of the king nor, regrettably, Lady Clinton. Suddenly we were disturbed by the roar of many small cannons being fired all at once outside the palace. The gunfire sounded like a burst of thunder. Everyone sprang to their feet but the cardinal's heralds called for silence and he sent his revels master, Henry Guildford, to see what was going on. (Oh, by the way, I never saw Agrippa at these banquets. Indeed, I never saw him eat. Strange, isn't it?) Well, the revels master returned, saying that some masked noble figures had arrived at the water stairs. Wolsey sent the fellow down to escort these strange guests up and we just sat watching the door. Guildford returned leading a large company of masked figures who marched into the hall to the raucous clamour of tambour and fife.

Now these visitors were dressed in simple shepherds' tunics though they were fashioned in stripes of crimson satin and cloth of gold. Visors and artificial beards hid their faces whilst false hair of fine gold wire and black silk covered the rest of their heads. These masquers filed solemnly, two-by-two, down to the high table. Their leader had quiet words with the cardinal, who smiled, clapped his hands, and a green baize-covered table and two chairs were brought in and set down in the middle of the hall. The leading masquer then stood on the dais, whilst a herald challenged anyone in the hall to play this strange man at dice.

Of course, it was a load of mummery, Fat Henry playing at masques and mystery. Oh, we all knew it was him with his stout legs and big arse, but everyone became involved in the pantomime. In theory, no one was supposed to challenge the mysterious figure and, if they did, they were supposed to lose. On that particular occasion matters went wrong. To cut a long story short, drunk as a bishop, I sprang to my feet.

'I accept the challenge!' I yelled, ignoring Benjamin's frantic tugging at my cloak.

The din in the hall stilled. The masked figure stepped ponderously off the dais, sat down at the baize-covered table and indicated with a gloved hand that I should join him. I staggered across. I don't know why. Perhaps it was pure mischief in me. Or was it something else? Perhaps the thought of dice had stirred memories of that terrible evening in the Golden Turk when the Luciferi had trapped me. Anyway, the very devil was in me. The masked figure clapped his hands, a cup of dice was produced. My opponent (of course it was the Great Killer) emptied his purse on the table, so did I, and the game began. I played as if my very life depended upon it. The rest of the hall left their places and gathered around us. I saw Benjamin's anxious eyes but ignored his warning look. I played to win and I did. I won the first purse of gold, then a second, then a third. The joy and gaiety seeped from that hall as the masked player's irritation became obvious. A courtier leaned over and whispered in my ear. 'For God's sake, man, lose!'

But not old Shallot! I threw the dice and almost my every throw beat his until Wolsey, standing behind the king's chair, gave a sign for the trumpeters to blow and the game ended. My opponent drew off his mask and I gazed into the red, sweaty face of the king. Now old Henry was a born actor. Indeed, I wonder if we ever saw the true Henry. (Do you know, I was in the council chamber with Thomas Cromwell when, years later, the northern rebels sent their demands and asked for his removal. Old Henry took his hat off and publicly beat Cromwell, telling him he was a caitiff and a knave and would be sent to the Tower. Of course, Henry was playing games. He wanted more time and the rebels gave him it. Time enough to collect troops and send them north to hang, burn and pillage. By the time they were finished there were ten men hanging from every scaffold north of the Trent.)

So it was that night at Hampton Court. Henry smiled, playing the chivalrous loser. He clapped me on the shoulder, proclaiming I was a great fellow, before sweeping away to join the dancers. I just took my napkin, filled it with all the coins I had won and tied the corners into a knot. Of course, Benjamin hustled me away to a corner by ourselves and that wasn't hard, everyone now distanced themselves from us. The mischief in my veins cooled as I saw the fear in his eyes.

'Roger,' he hissed, 'for the love of God! If you play against the king you always lose!'

'I won,' I quipped. 'By fair means not foul!'

Benjamin pushed his white, anxious face closer. 'No, Roger, the game is not yet over. You will still lose.'

Now, my natural caution exerted itself as I stared round the banqueting hall. Oh, there was dancing, masques and reels, gaily clad courtiers talking in groups, but I caught the fear-filled glances and realised what might happen. The Great Killer hated to be beaten. No one ever challenged Henry and won. The fat bastard's motto was: 'When I play, either I win or you lose!' The napkin now weighed heavy as death in my hands. My mind raced on how the game might proceed. I knew that royal turd. It could be anything from a charge of treason to a nasty accident. Wolsey swept across the room, his purple silk robes billowing round him.

'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot. The king wishes to see you now!'

I caught the stench of fear from the cardinal. A fine sheen of sweat glazed his heavy, quivering jowls. The dark eyes were as hard as slate. He glared at me. I knew why he was fearful. I was a member of his party, one of his retinue, and when the great Henry lashed out it was dangerous even to be in the same room as the king's enemy. We followed the cardinal across the floor. Benjamin nudged me furiously.

'For God's sake, Roger,' he hissed, 'stop this foolishness!'

I had already decided to do that as soon as I entered the darkened chamber where the royal beast sat slouched on a chair. (You had to watch the Great Killer's eyes.

They always reminded me of an angry boar's, small, red-rimmed and vicious – and that's when he was in a good mood! When he lost his temper, and that was often, his cheeks puffed up and his eyes shrank to two small, bottomless black pits. They had that same expression when we entered the room.) Wolsey scuttled to sit down behind him. Benjamin and I needed no second bidding. We fell to our knees, the gold coins clinking ominously in the napkin I clutched.

'Master Shallot, you played well.' The voice was sugar sweet.

'Yes, Your Majesty,' I mumbled, hoping I would not lose control of my bowels or vomit in sheer terror. (I always wore brown breeches.)

'You played against your king and won!'

My mind raced as nimble as a flea in air. 'Of course, Your Majesty,' I stuttered. 'As the wild woman prophesied.'

'What's that?'

I gazed up under my eyebrows. The king was now leaning forward. Wolsey just quivered in terror, shaking like one of the jellies his chefs had so recently served us. Benjamin knelt as if carved from stone.

'What do you mean?' the king repeated ominously.

'Your Majesty,' I stammered, 'when I was young at school in Ipswich, I helped an old lady cross a bridge.' I looked sideways at Benjamin. 'Master, you were with me, you will remember it?'

Benjamin nodded, his eyes fixed on the ground.

'The old woman was a seer,' I continued recklessly. 'She thanked me for my courtesy and prophesied that one day I would play against Europe's greatest prince in a game of hazard, and win. That, she said, would be my moment of glory, to tell my grandchildren,' I added hopefully.

(Oh, what a glorious lie! Shallot at his best, the born story-teller! The only old woman I helped in Ipswich was Bridget the Ancient. I did assist her to cross the river. I pushed the bloody bitch into it after she had cursed me for not handing over every penny in my pockets! But, on reflection, it was a good tale. I liked the bit about grandchildren, a pious hope that the Shallot line did not end there and then!) Well, you could have felt the atmosphere in the room relax as if someone had opened a window, letting in the cool summer breeze. Wolsey's mouth twitched, he once more became the most important person after God. Benjamin's shoulders shook as he controlled the bubble of laughter, but Henry sat back, clapping his hands and grinning from ear to ear like some bloody cat.

'You must tell that to the court!' he roared.

And, without further ado, I was marched back into the hall, placed on the dais, the heralds braying on their trumpets. I repeated my declaration to an admiring court, listening to the plaudits of praise. All the time the Great Killer stood beside me, his hand on my shoulder. When I had finished I turned and, sinking to one knee, dramatically handed the napkin full of gold back to the king. I would have loved to have swung the sodding bag and hit him straight in the balls but the old tight-fist snatched it off me and threw the gold on to the hall floor so he could watch his courtiers scramble. I thought the cunning bastard was finished with me but his hand remained vicelike on my shoulder. For a while he watched his courtiers make fools of themselves, then hissed: 'A word in thy ear, Master Shallot!'

I was force-marched back to the retiring chamber, Benjamin and the cardinal trooping behind us. I wondered what was coming next. Henry sat on the corner of a table, one fat leg swinging.

'I like your wit, Master Shallot,' he said, grinning mischievously at Wolsey. 'I understand you are off to France with Sir Robert Clinton? You are to search out the traitor Raphael and, when you find him, kill him or bring him back for me.'

'Yes, Your Majesty.'

'Look at me, Master Shallot.'

I raised my eyes and stared at that mad, bad face, the fleshy nose, the neatly trimmed gold beard and moustache.

'I hold you responsible, Master Shallot, you and Master Daunbey, for the return of my book from Abbe Gerard. And, one more task…'

'Your Majesty?'

The air in the room became positively icy. Henry leaned forward and tweaked my ear playfully. In actual fact the royal bastard's heavy hand sent an arrow of pain down the side of my face.

'Three years ago, Master Shallot, I was in France. I wore a beautiful ring, a love token made of sheer gold. It carried a silver Cupid, the eyes of which were fashioned out of pure diamonds.' The king licked his lips. 'My brother King Francis and I had a wager on a shy damsel at his court. He wagered a necklace of great value so I proffered the ring on who would win her favours first.' Those dry, prim lips pursed in spiteful annoyance. 'My brother Francis won the wager and I handed the ring over. He wears it always, never taking it off, but he said that if I could steal it back without him knowing, then I could keep it. Master Shallot,' he hissed, 'I want that ring back! You, with your skill at hazard, will bring it back to me. You understand?'

'Of course, Your Majesty!'

(Of course I bloody well did! The fat bastard had neatly trapped me. Not only had I to get his damn' book back but regain his ring. If I failed and the French caught me I would hang. If I won and the French caught me I would hang. And, if I failed and returned to England I would hang. I see my chaplain sniggering! The little turd! Mind you, he's right in what he says. When I look back at my golden youth all I can remember is people trying to hang poor old Shallot. For what? For nothing more than being true to himself.),

Henry smiled and dismissed us with a flick of his fingers. I'll be honest, Benjamin and I scuttled out as quickly as two of the cardinal's bloody spiders. We did not speak until we were back in our garret above the gatehouse.

'Master,' I wailed, 'what can I do?'

Benjamin sat on the side of his bed shaking his head. 'You could use your wits,' he replied sharply, 'and keep a close mouth when you are in the presence of princes. Roger, we stand on the edge of darkness. If we are not successful, we will not see England again.'

On that cheerful note he lay down, wrapped himself in a blanket and pretended to fall asleep. I'll be truthful, I sat quivering with terror until dawn. And why not? I had been drawn into the deadly rivalry, both political and personal, which existed between Francis and Henry. They were both arrogant, both lechers, both saw themselves as the answer to all the problems on earth. They took what they wanted and would brook no defiance. The only difference was that Francis did it with more charm. But for me, in that garret at Hampton Court, I felt like a rabbit having to choose between the jaws of the fox and the talons of the eagle.

Late the next morning we left Hampton Court. Benjamin was subdued. He made his farewells to Wolsey and Doctor Agrippa and we joined Clinton's party as they assembled in the great courtyard. The cries of ostlers, grooms, outriders, Serjeants and clerks rang out. Horses were saddled, sumpter ponies laden, the marshals of the household imposing order with their white wands of office. I glimpsed Lady Francesca, resplendent in a sea-green dress and cloak and small hat of the same colour, but for the moment, my lust had subsided. All I wanted was to be away from Hampton Court before I further incurred Henry's wrath.

Lord, I was pleased to be free of the place, following the white beaten track first west around London, then south across the downs to Dover. Outriders went first then Sir Robert, Master Benjamin and Lady Clinton. The first two soon became boon companions: they shared a common love of alchemy and an all-absorbing interest in plants and their natural remedies. Often our cavalcade would stop so they could both dismount and study foxgloves, fungi on tree bark, or the different types of mushrooms. Though interested in nature, I was still frightened by the demands of the Great Beast and hung back, watching jealously how the coquettish Lady Francesca seemed to take great interest in Benjamin but remained impervious to my own presence. Clinton's chief henchman, Venner, was an amiable enough fellow but his conversation revolved around bear and cock fighting and the virtues of one breed of horse over another. There was not a pretty face in sight so I sulked all the way to Dover. We paused now and again at some hostelry and, on one occasion, a Benedictine monastery, I forget its name. Well, what does it matter? It's only a pile of rubble now the Great Killer has finished with it.

No, on second thoughts, I wasn't sulking. I thought a lot about Agnes, her violent death and those of her family. I was satisfied that the Luciferi had killed her and I was determined, in my own cowardly way, to exact revenge once I was in France. Something else nagged at my mind and gnawed at my soul. An idea whose substance eluded me. Once I was aboard the Mary of Westminster and facing the terrors of the Narrow Seas, I put the matter aside.

Our cog was a sturdy merchantman escorted by a small man-of-war. We raised anchor, turned, dipping our sails three times in honour of the Trinity, and made our way to the open sea. Two days later, after a peaceful voyage, we disembarked at Calais – a dreadful place, England's last foothold in France, nothing more than a glorified fortress packed with men-at-arms and archers, who staggered the streets in their boiled leather jerkins, drinking in the many ale houses and generally looking for trouble.

The town was packed with carts and horses for the Great Killer always kept Calais well fortified. All a waste of time for his daughter, poor Bloody Mary, lost it to the French and died of a broken heart. (Oh, by the way, I was there when she died. I held her hand as the death rattle grew in her scrawny throat. 'Roger,' she whispered. 'My dear, dear Roger. When I die, pluck out my heart and you'll find Calais engraved upon it.' I bowed my head. She thought I was weeping. Nothing of the sort! I was terrified she might see the guilty look in my eyes for I am the man who lost the English Calais. Oh, yes! I was the silly, drunken bastard who left the gate open and let the French in, but that's another story.) We were soon free of Calais and heading south for Paris. The Normandy countryside baked under a warm summer sun. A peaceful journey. Even the scaffold and gibbets at the crossroads were empty; indeed, I even saw two festooned with garlands.

'Strange,' I muttered to Benjamin as we stayed at a tavern on our first night out of Calais. 'What is, Roger?'

'Well,' I answered, glad to have his attention, 'those two messengers who were killed by the Maillotins. It was on the same road we are following now.'

'So?'

'Well, the highway seems clear of thieves and rogues and very well guarded. I have seen at least three troops of cavalry.' I paused and Benjamin just stared blankly back. 'Look, master,' I hurried on, 'I know the Maillotins. They attack in the alleys and runnels of Paris, not plan an ambush in the open countryside.'

Benjamin played with the cup he was drinking from. 'You think it was not the Maillotins who attacked the messengers?'

'Yes.'

'So who did the French hang?'

'God knows!' I snarled, and turned away.

Benjamin patted me on the shoulder. 'Roger, you're out of sorts.'

'Oh, no, not me,' I replied quickly. 'You like Sir Robert?' 'I prefer his wife.'

Benjamin laughed. 'A strange pair,' he mused. 'She's a flirt but he dotes on her. Sir Robert met her when she was a ward of the French court.'

'She seems to like you.'

Benjamin shrugged. 'There's no accounting for taste, Roger.' He smiled, finished his wine, and deftly turned the conversation to other matters.

Just before we entered Paris we left the main road, and, following winding country tracks, approached the Convent of St Felice, its white stone buildings basking in the sunshine amongst soft green fields and small dark copses. A beautiful place, one of those convents which reeked of wealth, security, and its own strange kind of serenity. Everything was clean, precise and in its place. Even the convent yard, just within the great arched gateway, was neatly strewn with white stone pebbles, whilst around the walls small strips of garden full of flowers gave off their own fragrant perfume.

We were left in the guesthouse, drinking chilled white wine, whilst the sisters welcomed Lady Francesca and Sir Robert Clinton in a flurry of joy at seeing their old pupil and protege. Lady Francesca was treated as a favoured daughter but Sir Robert was idolised, treated with a deference which I found quite surprising. You'd have thought he was some fat cardinal from Rome. The nuns fussed around the Clintons like a group of mother hens. I found it difficult to follow their chatter (you know old

Shallot, nosy as hell and always looking for mischief), but they seemed most concerned about Lady Francesca's health. Anyway, they left us alone.

Lady Clinton went to see old friends whilst Mother Superior, a formidable old bird in her gold-edged habit, took Sir Robert away, her arm linked through his, for quiet chatter in her own private apartment. We stayed for about an hour, then with the sisters' greetings ringing in our ears rejoined our escort outside the walls and continued our journey.

We entered Paris by the Porte St Denis. It was strange to be back there and my memories were not pleasant: starving in the depths of winter, being beaten up, arrested for some misunderstanding and half-hanged at Montfaucon. The scaffold there was the first thing I clapped my eyes on when we entered the stinking streets of Paris. The city fathers had decided to improve the site since I last encountered it. A few corpses swayed in the breeze at the end of a rope but they had built a wall so when the bodies decayed and fell, their sight, if not their stink, was hidden from passersby. We followed the narrow, crooked streets, most of them unpaved and packed with a motley crew of citizens, monks, scholars and a legion of beggars. Stagnant pools of filth made us cover our mouths and noses whilst we kept bobbing our heads to avoid the painted signs which hung outside every house. All the time we were assailed by the noise of a hundred bells and the screams of hawkers and traders who sold everything from a piece of iron to hot chestnuts. We crossed one of the five big bridges built over the Seine and passed under the brooding mass of Notre Dame.

Near the Place des Greves, or rather the square close to it, a great crowd had gathered to witness an execution. One of the most horrible sights I had ever seen. A huge vat full of oil was bubbling over a monstrous bonfire and, bound hand and foot inside, stood a criminal being boiled to death. The screams, the smoke and the stench were, perhaps, a prophecy of the horrors which awaited us. Lady Clinton turned pale and would have fainted in the saddle if Benjamin had not caught her, whilst Sir Robert shouted abuse at the outriders, telling them to move on. We left Paris by the Porte D'Orleans and found ourselves back amongst the tilled meadows and windmills which ring the city. The suburbs dwindled and, after an hour's travelling, we turned a bend in the road and there, on the brow of a hill, outlined against a forest, stood the Chateau de Maubisson, a pleasant sight. It was ringed by a curtain wall protected by a moat spanned by a wooden drawbridge.

We clattered over this into the outer bailey where chickens pecked and pigs rooted for food. The place was busy and alive with noise from the stables, forges and outhouses built against the wall. We rode under another arch, guarded by serjeants-at-arms wearing the royal arms of England; great iron gates were flung open and we passed through these into the inner bailey, stopping before the great four-towered keep which soared up to the skies. Someone had quite recently built a wing on either side of this huge donjon but at each corner of the central building was a tower. Clinton said they were named after four ladies: Yolande, Mary, Isabel and Jeanne.

'From which did Falconer fall?' Benjamin asked. Clinton pointed to the one on the right nearside. We all stared up at the great tower which soared six storeys above us.

'So, the castle belongs to the English embassy?' Benjamin asked.

'Yes,' Clinton replied. 'Beyond this tower there is a garden laid out in the French style – some herb banks, a small rabbit warren, and a few hundred bushes of boxwood.' He waved his hand airily. 'Beyond the walls are some vineyards but the weather blights them. Some marshland, then of course the forest.'

He was about to continue when officials of the embassy came down the steps to greet us. There was the usual confusion of grooms taking horses, porters carrying chests, and a sea of faces as haphazard introductions were made. A servant took Benjamin and me off into the main hall, past the great chamber where meals were served, and up a spiral staircase to the third floor above the solar. The chamber given to us was spacious and clean, the walls freshly painted, the wooden floors covered with thick but clean-looking carpets. Two pallet beds had been erected, fresh torch sconces placed in the walls, some stools, a chair, a table and an aumbry, a heavy cupboard for our clothes, provided. Some thick, tallow candles, and jugs and bowls completed the furnishings. The windows were shuttered but one, glazed with horn, afforded a pleasant view of the boxwood garden and a glimpse of the forest-edge.

We spent that afternoon taking our bearings. The chateau was like many of its kind, stained by war here and there when the English (or the Goddamns, as the French call us) had tried to conquer Northern France, nothing remarkable. We met the officials of the embassy at dinner that same evening.

Now, the hall of the chateau was a simple affair, a great hearthed fire in the centre with some shields and antlers on the wall for decoration. There was a small gallery at one end which musicians would use and, at the other, against a wooden panelled wall, the dais and high table. Once supper was over and the retainers had withdrawn, the wine jug was passed round and introductions were made. Sir John Dacourt, the ambassador, was squat and florid, with frizzed white hair, light blue eyes, and the most luxuriant curling moustache I have ever clapped eyes on. He was dressed simply in the old-fashioned way with a cote-hardie which fell beneath his knees. He was a soldier of the old school who believed the only good Frenchman was a dead one.

‘I don't trust the damn' Frogs!' he boomed. 'Turn your back and the bastards will have you!'

Walter Peckle, the chief clerk, was a young man grown old before his time, with a complexion sallow and unhealthy, sunken cheeks, and eyes which never stopped blinking. His fingers were stained with blue-green ink and he constantly kept scratching what was left of his wispy, greasy, grey hair. Thomas Throgmorton, the physician, was thin as a pikestaff. Of indeterminate age, he had moist grey eyes set in a pale, thin face. His close-cropped hair was hidden under a black velvet skull cap. Michael Millet, Sir John Dacourt's secretarius, was strikingly good-looking. A young man with thick, blond hair which rose in waves from his forehead, and blue liquid eyes. Many a woman would have paid a fortune to have had his eyelashes, thick, long and curling. He was a proper fop: his roses and cream complexion was clean-shaven and a silver pearl dangled from a small gold chain in his right ear lobe. He sat like a woman and talked like one, sending coy glances at all of us. Waldegrave, the chaplain, was small, fat and balding, with the coarsened features and bright red nose of an inveterate drinker. By the time the meal was finished we were all in our cups but Waldegrave had staggered to the meal as drunk as any bishop. He sat next to me and I wrinkled my nose at the sweaty odour emanating from the long, black, food-stained gown he wore.

At first our after-dinner conversation was on general matters but when Lady Francesca withdrew, throwing Benjamin a smile which cut me to the heart, Clinton soon brought matters to order.

'Falconer's death,' he announced as soon as Lady Francesca's high-heeled step faded from the hall, 'was it an accident, suicide or murder?' His words cast a pool of silence. The warmth and cheer evaporated like mist before the sun. We all became aware how dark it was, the torches flickering and the shadows dancing against the bleak, white walls. At the centre of the table, Dacourt looked around.

'If it was suicide,' he trumpeted, 'it's a damn' strange way to go. If it was an accident, then it can't be explained. Check the tower yourself, Sir Robert, you know it well. The wall is crenellated but there are iron bars between the gaps. Falconer would have had to be standing on the very rim to slip and fall to his death. Why should a man do that?'

'Which leaves murder,' my master intervened smoothly.

'Impossible!' Throgmorton, the physician, spoke up.

Benjamin leaned forward and looked down the table at him.

'How, sir! Why do you say that?'

'Oh, our physician knows everything,' Millet quipped tartly. 'He's fond of snooping, especially through the half-open doors of any woman's bedchamber.'

The remark provoked faint laughter and Throgmorton flushed with embarrassment. (Well, as I say, never trust a doctor. It's surprising how many of them love to see a pretty wench stripped down to her shift.) Benjamin, however, refused to be diverted.

'Master Physician, I asked you a question.'

Throgmorton glared once more at Millet, composed himself and ticked the points off on his fingers. 'First, Falconer had the chamber you have now.'

Oh, thank you very much, I thought.

'I have a chamber on the floor above. I saw Falconer go up to the top of the tower. He seemed cheerful enough, with a cup of wine in his hand. I bade him good evening and he smiled back. No one else went up the stairs after him and certainly no one went before.'

'Are there other witnesses?' Benjamin asked.

'Do you doubt my word?' Throgmorton bellowed.

'Tush, Tom!' Millet spoke up, slouching against the table and admiring the cheap, tawdry rings on his fingers. 'I, too, heard Falconer go up.' Millet smiled dazzlingly at Benjamin. 'My humble abode is a garret at the top of this benighted tower.'

Benjamin grinned. 'And you would confirm what the good physician has said?'

'Of course!'

'There's one other matter,' Dacourt boomed, refilling his goblet. 'The top of the tower is covered with a fine coat of sand and gravel. Millet and I were the first to check that tower, after Falconer's body was discovered by a guard. It bore only the mark of Falconer's boots.'

'And the body?' Benjamin asked.

Throgmorton slurped from his goblet. 'The head was smashed open and the face badly bruised. The neck was so twisted you could lay the chin on either shoulder. Of course, there was bruising throughout his whole body.'

'And the wine he drank?'

'Good claret,' Dacourt boomed. 'Old Falconer liked his tipple. On Easter Monday, as the season of Lent finished and we need no longer abstain from wine, we opened a new bottle. Millet and I were present. We each had a cup before we left.'

'It's a custom here,' Millet added. 'During Lent, we all, as good sons of the Church, abstain from wine. On Easter Monday, we broach the best Bordeaux.'

'So there was nothing strange?' Benjamin asked.

Dacourt looked at me under lowered brows as if recognising my existence for the first time. 'No. Falconer was quiet and secretive but seemed in very good humour, laughing and talking rather garrulously. I did wonder if he had been in his cups before we opened the wine but he assured me he had not.'

'I scrutinised the corpse most carefully,' Throgmorton intervened. 'There was no real smell of ale or wine fumes nor of any other substance.'

'And the cup he drank from?' Benjamin asked, turning his chair slightly to look down the table at Dacourt.

'A pity,' the ambassador replied. 'Smashed to pieces.'

'Why do you say it's a pity?'

'Well, it was one of a set, wondrously carved from pewter. Falconer had four; people call them liturgical cups. You know, each cup bears a picture of one of the Church's four great feasts: Advent, Christmas, Easter and Pentecost.'

'And he was drinking from the Easter one?' I asked.

'Yes,' Dacourt replied. 'But now it's smashed to pieces.'

'Falconer was a very religious man,' Waldegrave slurred. 'Always talking about God. He was affected by the writings of that new teacher in Germany. You know, the monk who has jumped over his monastery wall, Martin Luther.'

(Oh, by the way, I once met Luther and his wife Katherine. He was strange! Brilliant, but still strange. Do you know, he was constipated? Oh, yes, there was nothing wrong with old Luther that a good bowel purge wouldn't have cured.)

'Did he discuss Luther?' Benjamin asked.

'No, not really,' Waldegrave slobbered. 'He was always talking about being saved. About whether he would go to heaven or hell. And if he wasn't talking about the after life, he was talking about birds.'

'Birds? What do you mean?' I asked.

Waldegrave leaned forward and stared blearily at me. 'I mean what I say. He was always watching bloody birds. Be it a duck, a sparrow, a linnet or a thrush. Mind you,' he tapped the side of his fleshy red nose, 'there were other matters.'

The rest of the company groaned in unison at having to listen to a well-known story.

'You see,' Waldegrave squirmed on his fat bottom, 'he came for confession to me. He said he thought he knew who Raphael was. When I asked him what he meant, all he replied was, "It is a grave matter".'

There were further moans and groans at the old toper's repetition of an apparently well-worn story.

'It's time for bed,' Dacourt snapped. 'Sir Robert, you must be tired.' He smiled. 'And the Lady Francesca waits. As for you, Sir Priest,' Dacourt glared at Waldegrave, 'I think you have drunk enough!'

The chaplain just stared back, open-mouthed, and belched like a thunder clap. Dacourt took a step nearer. The priest staggered to his feet and waddled off with an air of drunken disdain.

Dacourt watched him go. 'Bloody priest!' he muttered. 'Him and his jokes.'

'Lord save us!' Millet said languidly. 'If it's not his jokes, he is constantly relating how he fought as a moss trooper on the northern march.' Millet played with a lace cuff. 'The old drunk thinks he knows about horses, and is always trying to get to Sir John's destrier. Have you seen it?' The young man beamed at Benjamin, who shook his head. 'A beautiful horse. Pure air, fierce spirit, with the light tread of a dancer.'

Benjamin looked away and examined his finger nails.

'Sir John, where's Falconer buried?'

'At St Pierre,' Throgmorton the doctor interrupted. 'We couldn't send him back to England. He had no family and the body was a bloody pulp, so we bought a plot in the cemetery of St Pierre in the village of Maubisson.'

'The same church where Abbe Gerard was priest?'

'That's right,' Dacourt boomed. 'Though Abbe Gerard is no longer with us. He went for a swim in his own carp pond and drowned.'

'Strange,' Clinton mused. He leaned forward in his chair. So far he had been quiet, staring into the darkness, though keeping a careful eye on Sir John.

'What is?' Benjamin asked.

'Well,' Sir Robert also stood up, stretching himself carefully, 'on the Monday after Easter, Falconer dies from a mysterious fall from a tower. Two days later an old priest drowns in his own fish pond.'

'Are you saying there's a connection?' Peckle spoke up.

'No.' Sir Robert just shook his head. 'I just think it's strange.'

Sir John Dacourt gathered his cloak and made to leave.

'One last question?' Benjamin pleaded. 'Falconer's possessions, where are they?'

'His moveables are kept in the vaults below the hall here. What documents he had were handed over to Peckle.'

'You kept them well?' Clinton asked. 'Of course,' Dacourt snapped back. Oh, dear, I thought, not much love lost here! 'You've seen them already, Sir Robert. Was there anything amiss?'

'No, no, certainly not!' Sir Robert smiled falsely. 'But, as you say, Sir John, the hour is late and it's time for bed.'

Clinton put his goblet down on the table, bade us good night and walked softly away. Dacourt and Millet followed. Benjamin, however, sat staring down the hall. He shivered and pulled his cloak closer about him.

'Master?'

'Yes, Roger, I know, it's time to sleep. Perchance to dream.'

(Oh, by the way, I always remembered that line and later gave it to Will Shakespeare. You will find it in his play Hamlet which I helped to finance. It's about a Danish prince who finds out his mother is a murderess and spends his time lolling around, mooning about it. I am not too fond of it but go and judge for yourself. Old Will Shakespeare was forever asking about the murders I'd investigated. Strange, I never told him about the horrors of Maubisson.)

We wandered up the darkened staircase back to our chamber. I lit the candles and stared around curiously. From here, I thought, Falconer had left for his dreadful fall through the night. Benjamin went over to the open window, staring across at the darkened mass of the forest. He shivered at the 'yip, yip' of a fox carried by the cool night wind and jumped at the screech of the huge bats which flickered up and down the castle walls.

'This,' he murmured, 'is truly the valley of death.'

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared up at me.

'You should sleep, Roger. You are going to need your rest. We are in the company of a great assassin. Mark my words: Falconer and the Abbe Gerard were murdered, and things here are not as they appear to be.' He refused to be drawn any further.

I was young, tired, slightly drunk, and didn't give a rat's codpiece so I undressed and, within a few minutes, was lost in the sleep of the just.